


The Important Questions

by Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Brief Cameos from Other Characters, Comfort, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Softness, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, spoilers for episode 178
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27942569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending
Summary: “I have questions,” Wilde says, because of course he does. Who wouldn’t?“Go on.” Zolf hopes he doesn’t sound as tired as he feels. The man has a right to his answers, even if all Zolf wants to do is sleep, now that the worst of things is over.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 28
Kudos: 139





	The Important Questions

There are rooms set aside for visitors.

“Do you get a lot of visitors?” Zolf hears Azu ask the person guiding them, but finds himself losing focus before Azu receives an answer. He’s tired, that’s part of it. No, not just tired. He’s _exhausted_ , physically and emotionally, and considering the day (the week, the month, the nearly two years) that he’s had, it’s no wonder he’s beginning to crash now. He could deal with the physical exhaustion with a muttered prayer and a wave of his hand, but, well, he has his hands full at the moment, not to mention his arms and most of his right shoulder. He finds himself thinking about how even in his sleep, Oscar Wilde had unconsciously and easily folded himself against Zolf’s frame as if the man had been doing it every day of his life.

“I’m not sure what to do,” Cel says quietly, and even though Zolf isn’t sure who Cel is speaking to, themself or himself or Hamid, their tone pulls him from his thoughts. There’s exhaustion in there, but also a sort of _flatness_ that could be mistaken for calm, except Zolf knows better. It’s the tone of someone trying to hold themself together until it’s safe to fall apart. Zolf is more familiar with that feeling than he likes.

“I know kobolds don’t like other people knowing where they sleep,” Cel continues as Zolf looks up. Sassraa is tucked against their chest, her tail curled loosely around one of Cel’s arms. “But I don’t— I mean, she just— she was— _dead_.” The word is so heavy that Zolf literally sees the muscles in Cel’s throat strain with the effort of forcing it out. “Waking up alone in a strange place after that would be scary, I would think, or at least startling, or stressful, or—“

Zolf opens his mouth before Cel can come up with another s word, but a low grumble interrupts what Zolf is sure would have been a clumsy attempt at advice as Sassraa shifts a bit in Cel’s arms, claws digging slightly into the fur of Cel’s coat.

“You can _stay_ ,” Sassraa says, sounding a bit petulant, like it’s something she’s said already. She yawns, all teeth and tongue, her eyes barely open slits that Zolf only gets the tiniest glimpse of before Sassraa closes them again and burrows her head into the crook of Cel’s arm.

“ _Oh_ ,” Cel says quietly, that one word holding more emotion than one syllable should be able to handle. A tear escapes Cel’s eye when they blink, quickly followed by a few more.

“Good tears?” Zolf whispers, gently bumping Cel with the shoulder not occupied by Wilde.

“Mmmhmm!” Cel squeaks, wide-eyed and nodding.

“Well that’s all settled then!” Hamid says, his voice bright as he smiles, his eyes barely holding the emotion he’s trying to project. There’s grief in his eyes instead, flickering in their depths like Meerk’s funeral pyre.

Hope above and inside him, they all need time to rest and just… _process._

“Right,” Zolf says brusquely. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I don’t want to see any of you before noon tomorrow unless—“ He _just_ stops himself from saying, _unless something is on fire_. “—Unless there’s something that really can’t wait. Get something to eat, sleep until you wake up, just— take some time.”

No one argues with him, a small mercy. Azu gives him a smile and a satisfied nod before disappearing into her room, and that approval sits warm in Zolf’s chest as he enters the room their guide indicates.

The room is more than big enough for two people, and even though it’s sparsely furnished, with only one bed, one chair, and a small table, Zolf can tell that everything is expertly crafted, right down to the stones that make up the fireplace. Zolf lets out a breath, letting himself feel the warmth of the fire and more importantly the warmth of Wilde in his arms before gently setting the man down on the bed. If he shows any sign of discomfort at being separated from Zolf, Zolf doesn’t see it. Wilde looks so peaceful, the worry line that had carved itself deep between his brows (hidden by makeup every morning) was gone in truth now, and the scar that had twisted the man’s smiles and frowns is gone as well. That’s going to take some getting used to, and Zolf is grateful for the fact that it _is_ something he’ll have to get used to. Perhaps the deeper pain of the scar’s creation, the betrayal that had caused it won’t be removed as easily, but at least Wilde won’t have to face it in the mirror every morning, or feel it under his fingertips when he rubs his face in stress.

Zolf wonders what Wilde’s going to think about his new, white hair. It doesn’t make him look older, not like Zolf feels his own hair does, but instead makes him look more distinguished somehow. Zolf could almost laugh at that, because of _course_ it did. If circumstances had been normal, there was no doubt in Zolf’s mind that Wilde would have made white hair quite the fashion in certain circles, though he’s not sure anything short of magic could have replicated the color of it, the faint, subtle shimmer that might just be a trick of the firelight and Zolf’s own tired eyes.

Zolf realizes he’s staring and blinks, shaking his head. He should take his own advice and get some sleep. There’s a fur rug near the fire, more than large enough for Zolf to bed down on, but just the thought of moving towards it is exhausting. He finds his eyes drawn back to Wilde again, at his torn shirt gone dark and stiff with dried blood. The skin underneath the torn clothing is pale, but pale is better than bloody, better than torn and broken and—

Zolf takes a deep breath and turns, reaching into one of the bags he had brought with him from the ship, pulling out one of Wilde’s best shirts, laying it out carefully. Wilde doesn’t need to wake up and see the evidence of what had happened to him. His fingers are clumsy with the buttons of Wilde’s old shirt, his hands trembling, even when Zolf wills them to be steady. How many hours ago had it been that Zolf had thought he’d be dressing Wilde’s body for a funeral, running through the steps of preparing a body for burial in his mind?

“You know, this isn’t quite how I imagined the first time you took off my clothes,” Wilde says into the silence.

Zolf jumps and nearly swears, then takes a deep breath instead. “So you’ve imagined it, then?” He says, as if this is a normal conversation, perhaps a continuation of the one they had had in that other place.

“Oh yes,” Wilde says, and Zolf can hear the smile in his voice. “Many times. I imagined there’d be wine, for a start. The fireplace is spot on though.”

Hands still frozen on the buttons of Wilde’s shirt, Zolf turns his head. Wilde’s propped up on his elbows, looking back at him, his smile slight, untwisted, both faintly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He watches as Wilde’s gaze falls from his face to where Zolf’s hands are, watches the smile turn to a puzzled frown before his eyes start to fill with something like recognition.

“What do you remember?” Zolf asks quietly.

“The safety rope snapped,” Wilde says, just as softly. “Then other things…. snapped. There was…. you were…” He looks away from the bloody shirt and back up at Zolf again. “That was real.”

It’s not a question, but Zolf nods as if it had been. “Yeah. It was real. It happened.”

Wilde nods. “I have questions,” he says, because of course he does. Who wouldn’t?

“Go on.” Zolf hopes he doesn’t sound as tired as he feels. The man has a right to his answers, even if all Zolf wants to do is sleep, now that the worst of things is over. He readies himself to answer the questions Wilde is most likely to ask.

“Is everyone else all right?”

Zolf closes his eyes briefly. “Carter and Sassraa and Meerk all… died, same as you. Meerk’s the only one who… made a different choice.”

“Ah,” Wilde says with a sigh. “He’ll be missed. His musical talent was very… singular.”

Zolf can’t help but huff a sad little chuckle at that. “Yeah, that it was.”

There’s a moment of quiet, then the rustle of fabric as Wilde reaches out and puts a hand over Zolf’s, stilling his trembling fingers. “Are _you_ all right?”

Zolf blinks. He hadn’t been expecting that question, and for a moment he feels the automatic answer rising in his throat, that he’s fine, before he clenches his jaw against the lie. He’d gone from seeing the person he cared most for in the world dead in the snow to being with him now, warm and alive and _here_ , and so much had happened in between, all in one long, long day.

“I’m tired,” Zolf says in a near whisper, those two words not nearly enough to encompass how he’s feeling right now.

Wilde nods as if he hears all the things Zolf hasn’t said. “No more questions. They’ll keep until the morning. Come to bed,” he says quietly. “Plenty of room for two.” He says that last with a soft smile.

Zolf could argue, of course, could go curl up by the fire and leave Wilde to have the bed, but there’s something in Wilde’s eyes that seems to say he doesn’t want to be alone, or maybe that’s Zolf’s own emotions reflected back at him. Zolf’s too tired to argue. More importantly, he doesn’t _want_ to.

“Thought you’d at least ask where we are,” Zolf says a few moments later as he sets his prostheses by the head of the bed, within easy reach. Wilde’s bloody shirt has been flung as far across the room as he could manage. Zolf would have thrown it on the fire if they wouldn’t have had to live with the room smelling of burnt cloth and blood after.

Wilde shrugs from under the blanket as Zolf slips into bed beside him. The man hadn’t bothered to put on another shirt, and his bare chest is warm against Zolf’s own. “I know where I am,” the bard says simply. “I’m with you.”

Zolf curls an arm around Wilde and closes his eyes against the tender sentiment and the tears it threatens to bring. “You romantic sap.”

Wilde chuckles. “You have no idea.”

Zolf finds himself smiling as he pulls Wilde just a little bit closer. He keeps waiting for the physical closeness to feel strange and new, but instead to his surprise it feels natural, right. Why had he waited so long to tell Wilde how he felt? He hardly remembers now.

“One more question,” Wilde says suddenly, and Zolf groans against his shoulder.

“I thought you said no more questions?”

“It’s very important,” Wilde says solemnly, and Zolf sighs.

“Fine. What is it?”

“Have you figured out where we’re going on holiday yet?”

“You’re an ass,” Zolf mutters, giving Wilde an exhausted shove before drawing him close again. The man’s self-satisfied laughter follows him down into sleep. Nothing he dreams that night is better than the reality of Wilde in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to write something nice and soft for these two. Just once, everyone gets a good night's sleep.
> 
> I’m [angel-ascending](http://angel-ascending.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr and [angel_in_ink](http://twitter.com/angel_in_ink) over on Twitter if y’all want to stop by and say hi!


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